


pull it tight, see the light

by likecharity



Category: Chronicles of Narnia RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Cunnilingus, F/M, Femdom, Riding, Rope Bondage, Trust, Vaginal Sex, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-14
Updated: 2011-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-10 19:21:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/469778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likecharity/pseuds/likecharity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He thought if Georgie were completely in control, he wouldn't feel guilty about being with her. Some twisted logic along the lines that if it all comes from </i>Georgie<i>, he's not to blame. But lying here, </i>tied to her bed<i> with a stuffed panda looking at him reproachfully, he still feels pretty guilty.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	pull it tight, see the light

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this prompt](http://likecharity.livejournal.com/178163.html?thread=4117491#t4117491) over at the kink meme. Low on plot. Title from 'Everybody Knows' by Kids of 88. Oh, and Georgie is seventeen in this, btw!

"Okay, you? Need to relax," says Georgie. Her voice is stern but she's still smiling, lips turning up at the corners just a little like she can't quite help herself.

"Easy for you to say," Ben replies, squirming a little beneath her as she reaches over him to work on the knot. "You're not being tied up."

"I thought you wanted me to take control," she says, innocently, and her breathing is a little laboured now with the effort it takes for her to pull at the ropes. The sound of it makes Ben squirm a little more, and she sits more firmly on top of him to make him stop, thighs clamping around his body. "Stop moving," she says, somewhat absentmindedly, still yanking at the rope.

He thinks of saying maybe they should have used scarves or something instead, or that he wouldn't be moving if she'd get on with it, or asking if they taught her how to tie knots in Brownies because they definitely taught him in Cubs and this would probably go a lot more smoothly if _he_ was doing it—but in the end he just sighs, rolls his tongue over his lips and says, a little sarcastically, "Yes, _Ma'am._ "

Georgie yanks the rope particularly hard, and Ben squeaks. He'd like to think of it more as a manly groan of suppressed pain, but it's not, it's just a squeak. She gives him a big, triumphant grin, cocking her head on one side, and Ben narrows his eyes at her.

"Done," she says, happily, looking rather proud of herself.

She's right. She's already tied his ankles to the foot of the bed, too—handily, her bed is a fairly small single, with a metal frame to which it is quite easy to tie things. Less handily, this means she already has a few things tied to it, and Ben isn't entirely confident that when he leaves the bedroom later he won't be dragging fairy lights and wispy scarves and strings of beads with him. Georgie insisted this happen in her house, and while she assures him her parents are away for the weekend, he can't help but worry. He's not sure any parent wants to come home early from a holiday and find their teenage daughter tying a man to her bed.

"Are we going to be able to undo—" he starts, nervously.

"Probably not without difficulty," Georgie grins. "Or these." She reaches over and produces a pair of purple-handled scissors from her bedside table, waving them at him before putting them back.

"Safety precautions," Ben says, nodding, "very wise."

"I have other safety precautions, too," she says, raising her eyebrows suggestively, and she picks up something else and waves it at him, but he doesn't need to see it to know she means condoms.

"I—oh—well—I," Ben stammers for a bit. Of course, he'd been prepared for sex as a possibility, but he sort of didn't let himself think about it much beyond that, and it's kind of overwhelming to think that Georgie's thought of it too, that Georgie _wants_ it.

None of this really feels _quite_ how he thought it would. Not yet, anyway. It's surreal. He thought if Georgie were completely in control, he wouldn't feel guilty about being with her. Some twisted logic along the lines that if it all comes from _Georgie_ , he's not to blame. But lying here, _tied to her bed_ with a stuffed panda looking at him reproachfully, he still feels pretty guilty. 

He knows that guilt well. It's been following him around for maybe a year now (or perhaps longer, but a year ago was when she turned sixteen, so he's happier sticking with that), and they both know it. Every time they see each other, tension sparks between them and Ben tries desperately not to respond to her flirting and always, always fails. He was never sure, though, whether she really _meant_ it. He convinced himself he was imagining it, that it was just wishful thinking, and he almost didn't dare think about what it would mean if it were real.

And then one night, after going out for dinner with Anna and Skandar, they were on the tube home and it was packed full, the four of them standing up and clinging to anything they could to avoid lunging into strangers with the juddering movements of the train. Georgie had been pressed right up against Ben in a corner, her fingers brushed his against a dirty railing and the atmosphere was hot and stifling, her body so _close_. Anna and Skandar were a little way off, so Ben couldn't distract himself by talking to them, and Georgie kept meeting his eyes and biting her lip. The tension between them was so palpable that Ben _knew_ then that he wasn't imagining it, and it made his heart pound and his mouth dry. 

And then at the next stop, during a frantic flurry of movement as people swarmed on and off the train, Georgie was pushed by someone and nearly toppled over into the wall. Ben grabbed her around the waist and, looking up at him, she said, "We're going to have to do something about this." The carriage was noisy, but Ben heard her clear as day.

So he started thinking about it. Okay—he'd already been thinking about it, maybe a lot, but this time he started thinking about it in less of a vague-fantasy sort of way and more in a _oh god, this might actually happen, what do I do??_ sort of way. And then they talked about it. Just a little, just vaguely. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't imagine any of it without feeling a little bit sick to his stomach. Even imagining tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and kissing her on the lips seemed all wrong, even though he _knew_ then that she wanted it. Once he took the thoughts further—pictured himself undressing her, laying her down on his bed and having _sex_ with her—he just felt awful. Like an utterly awful, awful person.

Interestingly, though, when he thought about _her_ initiating things, it didn't seem to bother him quite so much. And that was how he came up with—well, this. He was kind of vague in articulating it to her, because he still didn't understand it completely himself, but she seemed to get it. So much so that the whole tying-him-down thing had actually been _her_ idea. When he arrived at her house, a little jittery with nerves, the first place she'd led him had not been her bedroom, but the garage, to fetch some thin old rope.

"Rope?" he'd asked in a small voice as she coiled it up purposefully.

"Yeah," she said with a shrug and a slightly cheeky smile. "You want me to be the one in control, right?"

He wondered if that really meant he had to be physically restrained. He didn't think it did. But he didn't protest, because he was kind of curious about how this was going to play out. She hasn't even kissed him yet—when they finally came into the bedroom she just told him to lie down, going along with his plan surprisingly eagerly, even taking it further than he'd expected.

Now, she shifts a little over him, and instinctively he tries to squirm again, but very little movement is actually _possible_ now. So far, the uncomfortable bending of his arms and the rubbing of the tight rope against his skin has kept him from getting excited by the feel of her straddling him, but now that he's really, properly bound to the bed and can hardly move and is _completely_ at her mercy—well. That's more exciting than he anticipated.

"Now what?" says Georgie, arms folded across her chest.

" _Now what?_ " Ben splutters. "I—I don't know, I can't—" He can't tell her what to do; that runs contrary to the whole point. "You just," he tries to wave a hand vaguely in the air, but, of course, can't, "have your way with me."

Georgie's face breaks into a grin. "Have my _way_ with you?" she giggles. She unfolds her arms and reaches for his neck, fingers toying with the collar of his shirt. "Well well."

He smiles at her slightly nervously as she runs her hands down his chest, leaning over him now like that, her hair hanging down.

"Your heart is beating stupidly fast," she informs him in a low whisper, and again he tries to squirm and fails. He thinks this is becoming a theme.

"Yours would be too if—" he starts, but she interrupts him.

"Oh, mine _is_ ," she says, cheeks colouring just a little, "you just can't feel it."

And something about the _truth_ of that statement sends a bit of a shiver down his spine. He _can't_ feel it. He's literally physically incapable of touching her right now, with his hands at least. The only way his body is going to come into contact with hers is if she'll let it. And that's—new. New and _interesting_. Experimentally, he struggles, flexing under the coils of the rope and trying to work his hands free. There's no way that's going to happen, though, it becomes clear. 

She pulls her hair over round one shoulder and starts to lean down closer, and he knows she's going to kiss him and it's _instinct_ to try to pull up and meet her halfway, plus he really _wants_ to because this moment can't come quickly enough, but he can't. His stomach muscles aren't really doing him any favours right now (he supposes the fact that they've got a seventeen year old girl sitting on them probably isn't helping), because all he manages is a bit of an arch and then a flop, and then her hair is tickling his neck and she's giggling softly against his lips, and what he _can_ do, at least, is lift his chin a little bit—but then she's pulling back.

"Ah ah," she murmurs. "Me in control, remember? Don't make me tie your head down too."

"How would you do that?"

"I won't," she replies, and actually smirks, "if you're good."

"You're having too much fun with this," Ben says suspiciously.

"Oh, and you're not?" she retorts, wiggling again over his hips.

He's started to get hard already and he was hoping she hadn't noticed (all he _could_ do was hope), but now she's moving sort of rhythmically over him, gently rocking back and forth and making his blood rush. She takes his tie in her palm and starts to curl it around her fist a little clumsily, holding tightly onto it as she continues to grind down against him.

"I like that you wore a tie," she says, quietly teasing.

"I was—I had a thing, earlier," Ben says, and swallows, beginning to forget how to form sentences as he feels the fabric rubbing at the back of his neck.

"You weren't dressing up for me?" she pouts. 

She's being playful, flirtatious, and he's used to it—but he's definitely not used to it happening when he's being pulled in all directions, when he's feeling that slightly painful tugging at his wrists and ankles and now his neck. Not to mention that this isn't just talk anymore, and the anticipation is killing him now, now that this feels so possible, so immediate, so like something that is actually going to happen. And he's powerless to speed things up. If Georgie wants to drag it out, she can.

"I dressed up for you."

"No you didn't," Ben chuckles, because Georgie is just wearing a t-shirt and some little denim shorts, with a zip-up cardigan that he thinks once belonged to Anna thrown casually over the top.

She laughs and lets go of his tie then, slides her fingers beneath it and toys with his shirt buttons. Ben wonders if she's really going to undress him before even kissing him, and the thought is a little exciting, though having to wait even longer to feel her lips on his is excruciating. It occurs to him to wonder whether she's ever actually undressed a man before—he's not sure she's ever really had a proper boyfriend, but she's talked about friends-who-are-boys quite a bit and it doesn't seem unreasonable to assume she's fooled around with them. He doesn't particularly like the thought, but it's comforting to believe this isn't her first time, if only because he's not sure first times should happen with older men tied to beds.

Georgie unbuttons his shirt, but then they both realise that she _can't_ undress him, not properly, not without untying the ropes. So she just sort of pushes the shirt open, spreads her hands out over his stomach and slides them up his chest, cool and almost clammy against the heat of his own skin. 

He catches the way her hand shakes, just a little, before she tweaks a nipple and then smirks at him as she says, "My turn," and—he's not sure of it—but it sounds like her voice shakes a little too.

She shrugs off Anna's cardigan, and Ben wonders briefly what Anna would think if she knew what her clothing was involved in right now. But he imagines her shocked and disgusted, disappointed in him, and that brings back a wash of guilt. Thankfully, he's distracted from it by Georgie pulling her t-shirt up over her head, wriggling as she does so, exposing soft pale stomach and the hint of ribs as she stretches and—oh god, no bra.

She tosses the t-shirt aside, and then looks at him again, and maybe she's blushing or maybe she's just a little red in the face from exertion, but either way she looks slightly flustered and extremely adorable.

Also extremely topless, which is—which is—

"Ack," Ben says, throwing eloquence out the window, "you're so—" his brain just keeps saying _naked_ , which, while kind of true, is also kind of stating the obvious. But eventually he manages, "beautiful," and it sounds a bit silly but her face softens and she's definitely blushing this time, looking down at herself shyly.

"They're not very big," she confesses, taking them in her hands and pushing them up a bit.

"Oh, shh," Ben hears himself say, slightly faintly, staring, "they're perfect."

Georgie strokes her thumb over one of her nipples, almost absentmindedly, as if she has an itch, and then looks up at him curiously. "You want to touch them," she says.

Ben isn't particularly surprised that she figured this out—it wouldn't be unfair to describe his current expression as 'longing'. All he can do is nod.

"But you can't," she says, smiling to herself as she shifts closer. "Huh. This is kinda fun."

"Maybe for you," Ben replies in a strained voice, tugging pointlessly at the ropes, wishing he could feel that gorgeous pale swell in his palm, the stiffness of her nipples against his fingertips. 

She takes pity on him, leaning down, ever so slowly, careful to control just how much he gets to feel. He jolts a little when he first feels her nipples brush the hypersensitive skin of his chest, and it's _better_ somehow like this, a different sensation, feeling the softness of her skin without using his hands. She lowers herself further, and he feels her breasts press against his chest, hot. If he concentrates, he thinks he can feel her heartbeat, finally, and she's right—it's pounding just as fast as his.

He realises, then, that her face is hovering just over his, her head tilted up to keep their lips from touching, and he can feel her breath, and she's so, so close, her lips slightly parted and her eyes bright. He can't help but lift his chin again, just a fraction, hoping maybe she'll give in—but in a flash she's sliding up out of the way, and then he realises what she's doing as one of her breasts hangs just over his open mouth, and her nipple catches his bottom lip, drags it down. His trousers feel tight, much too tight, as he cranes his neck and sucks, tonguing warm skin and _tasting_ , and god, it's so much better to feel this with his mouth than with his hands.

She's looking down at him with an odd sort of half-smile, watching him as he rolls his tongue over her nipple, teasing it, and she brings her other breast to his mouth, lets her skin skim his wet lips. She sighs softly, and then suddenly pulls back, seeming flustered again, like maybe she felt she was losing too much control. She drags a hand back through her hair. Her nipples shine, a little bit, wetness on the skin catching the light.

"Okay, tops are done," she says, grinning slyly, "now for the bottoms. Who first?"

"Me, please, me," Ben says, and screw it, he's hoarse and desperate and begging, because what just happened has brought him to full, almost unbearable hardness and he's so uncomfortable now.

Georgie giggles, running her hand teasingly down over his crotch and feeling the bulge there, the stiffness beneath the fabric. She squeezes, and then lets go.

"Nah," she says, "I think me," and she reaches down to start fiddling with the button of her jean shorts.

"Ohh, I hate you," Ben groans, eyes falling shut in exasperation, but just before they close he catches a glimpse of something that makes them snap open again immediately.

"No you don't."

The glimpse is of a reddish-brown dusting of hair, slowly becoming visible as Georgie tugs down her zipper. Ben gapes for a bit, and barely even registers the discomfort as she wriggles about on top of him to peel the shorts off, because oh good _God_ , she isn't even wearing knickers and he can see everything, _everything_ , her creamy pale thighs and the glistening pink flush between them.

"Do you just...not wear underwear?" Ben enquires, trying to sound nonchalant but hearing his voice come out shaky.

"I told you I dressed up for you," she replies, tossing the shorts over her shoulder and knocking over a lamp somewhere behind her. She laughs. "I suppose I should have said dressed _down_."

It's amazing how, even saying something like _that_ , she still sound so much like the Georgie he knows so well. She doesn't come across like some unrecognisable sex kitten, over-the-top seductive, she's just _Georgie_ —not wearing underwear and somehow being cute about it.

She's on her knees between his spread legs, and there's a pause in which it seems she's not sure what to do next. And he wants to tell her, wants to say _come here_ , because he's starting to realise it's pretty nice only being able to touch her with his mouth and he'd quite like to put it to further use (and by 'quite like', he means he's practically gagging for it, catching glimpses of that delicate rosy skin each time she shifts her hips, and his mouth fills with saliva, desperate to taste her)—but he can't. This has to come from her.

It seems, though, that she hasn't even thought of it yet. Maybe her friends-who-are-boys haven't ever done that with her, maybe she's too shy to ask it of him. She trails a hand down her stomach, dips it between her legs, and sort of cups herself there. He can see the slight movement of her fingers, stroking, and he stares and swallows, imagining how wet she might feel, silky-soft and hot against her own fingertips.

"I could kinda use your hands right now," she admits, laughing a little, and Ben tries his hardest not to say anything, and totally fails.

"I have a mouth," he blurts out.

Georgie breaks into a surprised grin. "Yeah?" she asks, looking uncertain—but, Ben thinks, it seems like she's more worried about whether _he_ wants to than unsure of her own desire.

"Yeah," Ben replies. He presses his lips together and then gives her a cheesy grin. "It's right here."

Georgie hesitates. She's still touching herself, which makes it tricky for Ben to focus on the conversation. He wants her, _so_ badly, wants to taste her—but—

"I mean, only if you want to," Ben says hurriedly. "I'm not suggesting anything or exercising control in any way. We can pretend I never spoke."

"You're speaking too _much_ ," Georgie replies. "Maybe I should gag you."

Ben laughs, startled. She's coming closer.

"Or just cover your mouth," she says, grinning as she reaches his chest, her knees pushing gently into his underarms, "with...something."

"Something," Ben repeats, trying to stop smiling as he realises what she's getting at. "I wonder what you could possibly use."

Georgie glances around. "I don't really see anything," she says, faking disappointment. She thrusts her hips forwards just a little, and Ben strains, pulling his head up as far as he can, until his chin _just_ manages to brush against the russet hair between her legs, until he feels it tickle his lips. "I'm sure we can make do, though," she says faintly, her breath hitching.

"I'm sure," Ben breathes, but it comes out as more of a wavery sigh. He can _smell_ her, see just how wet she is, so close.

Georgie reaches down, and one by one eases her legs under his splayed-out arms, tucking them there in order to bring herself directly over his head. It makes him feel even more helpless, pinned down with her over him. She grins down at him for a moment, a little nervously, and he opens his mouth, lips quivering, overcome with anticipation and then she's spreading out her knees to bring herself lower, closer. Ben can't wait; he stretches his neck, juts out his chin, until it _hurts_ , until the muscles ache with the effort, until finally he can _feel_ her against his lips, a hot gentle pulse and soft, soaked skin.

She sinks down, and he gasps suddenly against her in some sort of desperate relief, mouthing at her without rhythm, almost frantic. His lip pushes slickly up against her clit and this time she gasps too, steadying her hands against the headboard, wrapping her fingers around the metal and holding on tightly. Ben finds it again with his tongue, and strokes, lightly at first to see how much she can take, how sensitive she is. And then suddenly she's bearing down on him harder, settling her weight, moaning deeply as she begins to grind herself against the flat of his tongue.

Ben stares up at her—up past the tuft of hair, the plane of pale, quivering stomach, the pert buds of her breasts, the long white column of her neck—to where she's pink-cheeked and open-mouthed, eyes heavy-lidded and she's _smiling_ , head tilted back. 

"Oh, _ffffuck_ ," she murmurs, almost to herself.

She tosses her head back further and cants her hips to rock against him at a slightly altered angle. The bedframe creaks, a chain of glass beads jangles somewhere to Ben's left. He feels something brush his fingers and he jerks his hand instinctively, but this makes the rope rub around his wrist and so he tries to keep still. But the way Georgie's moving against him, the way she's pulling herself over his mouth, against his tongue, as he lies there, passive and watching, it makes him so aroused, so hard now that it feels like he could tear out of his trousers, and his own hips echo the movement of Georgie's in an attempt to find some friction. The only thing he gets, though, is rope burn around his ankles and an unsatisfied ache between his legs.

But, as frustrating as it is, Ben can't complain, not with a view like this, not with his lips smeared wet and his mouth full like this—lips closed over her now and suckling, tongue beginning to tease inside her every now and then, making her _squirm_ against him, letting out gasping little sighs and then something that sounds like his name, a breathless repetition of _Ben_ and then there's a fistful of his hair in her hand as she comes, hard and sudden, thighs trembling around his head.

He licks inside of her, slower and slower as she comes down, and he feels her shudder again as an aftershock courses through her body. She's slumped over him now, one hand still gripping weakly onto the headboard and the other tangled loosely in his hair, her sweaty forehead pressed against her arm. She's breathing hard, panting almost, and the fairy lights illuminate her blissed-out expression, casting fractured patterns across her face.

Ben kisses her the only place he can, and she jolts, eases off him shakily, untangling her legs from his arms and then sitting (not terribly lightly) on his heaving chest. 

"You okay?" he asks softly. He wants to wipe his mouth, but of course can't, so settles for licking around his lips instead, which seems to make her face go even pinker.

"Yeah, wow," she says after a dazed moment. She runs her fingers back through her hair, now damp with sweat and messy. She laughs, still breathless. "Mouths. Better than hands, huh."

"I'm starting to think I don't really need my limbs at all," Ben replies with a chuckle. He thinks she _is_ okay, really, just a bit overwhelmed. Perhaps that was the strongest orgasm she's ever had, or even her first, though he doesn't want to flatter himself.

She's grinning, now, somewhat mischievously. "What about this?" she asks, and then she reaches down behind her to palm his erection through his trousers. He bucks weakly up into her hand and she laughs.

"Yeah, I need that," Ben admits. 

What he really needs is for it to be freed from its evil fabric prison, and luckily Georgie seems to get that, wiggling down his body and coming to rest between his legs before beginning to undo his fly.

"'kay, this is gonna be tricky," she says, and her voice sounds shaky again and he sort of can't deal with that, but she needs him to lift his hips up off the bed as much as he can so she can ease his trousers down, so he tries his best to get a grip.

The trousers can't really go any further than his knees, because Georgie sort of spread his legs wider than necessary, but it's okay—Ben's just glad to have them out of the way. But then Georgie's looking between his legs, and for a moment he can't see the problem, on account of how _Georgie is looking between his legs_ , at the way his hard cock pushes out the thin cotton of his boxer-briefs, at the little damp spot of pre-come darkening the fabric, and then she says—

"Not really sure what to do with these."

And Ben realises she has a point.

"Ha, um, hmm," he says, or something along those lines anyway, his voice is croaky and his brain isn't functioning the way it normally does and he can't be held accountable for what comes out of his mouth. "I'm not sure we thought this through."

"I could just shove them down," Georgie suggests.

"I don't think you can," Ben disagrees. They don't _open_ like the trousers, the waistband is much too narrow and tight to stretch with the way his legs are open, and Georgie seems to realise that.

"But I can't untie you," she says, heaving a sigh. "That's going to take _forever_."

"If it's even possible," Ben adds, which isn't terribly helpful of him, but he thinks the blood that is usually occupying the 'useful suggestions' part of his brain is hanging around somewhere rather lower right now.

"Oh, oh! I know!" Georgie cries suddenly, clambering off the bed, grabbing something purple, and then clambering back on.

"Wha—"

"They're not expensive or somehow emotionally significant, are they?" she asks, and he realises then that what she's holding is the pair of scissors, which, oh Christ, she's going to _cut his underwear off him._

"No," he says, trying to keep his voice at least _slightly_ steady, "they're just pants."

She grins, and slices the air, the gentle _snip_ of the scissors seeming loud in the stillness of the room. "You trust me?" she asks, prying the hem of the boxers from his right thigh.

"I'm tied to your bed," Ben replies, and can't help but grin. "I think it's safe to say that I trust you."

Georgie is satisfied with this answer, grin widening, and then the sound comes again, and again, and it's an odd feeling—the cold metal pressing against his heated skin, sliding, pushing up as Georgie cuts through the fabric. She has to work a little bit to get through the elastic of the waistband, but eventually it's done and it falls open at his side. Already, it feels better, and he can feel the cool air of the room through the gap in the fabric now, making him shudder as Georgie begins to cut through the other leg of the boxers, much more quickly this time. Once she's done it, she drops the scissors onto the floor, clearly not wanting to drag this out any longer, and pulls down the flap of fabric that covers him, and Ben stares down at himself as his erection is exposed from the hastily-cut fabric, flushed red and rigidly hard.

She touches it almost instantly, which surprises him, and his hips buck up instantaneously but don't get very far. Georgie laughs, soft, low, and then brings her hand up to her mouth and licks at her palm before wrapping it around him at the base, sort of gentle and cautious but just the feel of her skin against his—tender, hot, taut—is so good. He tries to keep his hips still, tries not to rush her, but he can't help but squirm again, as much as he can. It's amazing how powerless he really feels, the way she can do anything she wants to him, and he can't move. He just _can't_.

Georgie holds him a little tighter, her hand slick and small around him, and drags slowly up. Ben lets out a groan, and, encouraged, she continues, twists her wrist a little bit and works him up and down, and then suddenly slides her cupped palm over the head of his cock to gather more wetness before doing it all again. Ben groans louder.

"Good?" she asks quietly.

"So good," he manages.

She waits a beat, and then leans down like she's trying to see more closely, all the while her fingertips stroking absentmindedly along a vein and her thumb pressing just above his balls, and then he can feel her _breath_ against his aching cock, and she says,

"Mouths are better though, right?"

Ben makes a sort of strangled sound, staring down at her big blue eyes looking up at him, and then babbles something about how yes, but no, oh, she doesn't have to do that, not just because he did, and really it's okay if she just, and—

And then his cock is between her lips, which shuts him up (or at least ensures that the only sounds he can make are sort of pathetic little whimpers) and she's easing it into her mouth, steady, careful, taking her time. He feels her lips stretch around him, and he feels the wonderful wet heat of her mouth envelope him bit by bit, and her fingers tightly steadying him at the base with her thumb still stroking at his balls. It's not even an issue of self-control to keep himself from thrusting up his hips because he simply _can't_ , they're already as far off the bed as they can go and Georgie's pushing them down insistently with her other hand.

She gets him with her teeth by mistake, just a little, and he winces, but somehow it's not _bad_ —there's something interesting he's discovering, here, about the juxtaposition of pleasure and pain. The ropes are one thing, uncomfortable on their own but bearable when combined with everything else he's experiencing, and now it's the same, as Georgie's sharp teeth graze his tender skin but then immediately afterwards he feels her soft hot tongue.

He doesn't feel it for long, though (which is maybe a good thing, because the way things were going he might have ended up coming), because then she's pulling back off him, wiping her mouth with her fingers and then looking at him, looking at his _cock_ for a long moment.

"I want to—" she says eventually, and then breaks off, and then she's scrambling for the box on the bedside table and the sound of ripping foil rings out in the quiet of the room before she's back between his legs with a condom in her hand, pinching the tip and sliding it onto him only a little clumsily.

"Are you—are you—sure?" Ben stammers, even though she clearly is, and she gives him a look that says as much before nodding emphatically.

She strokes him once more and then dips her head and licks up his length, too, gets him wetter before parting her legs to straddle him, holds his body snug between her legs, his cock just barely touching her. He shudders, anticipating, and she reaches to guide him in as she eases down. He feels the way his cock presses, pushes against the resistance, feels the searing heat of her and the slickness that seems to coat him. She pushes down harder, and then winces, face screwed up, eyes shut tight, and bobs up again involuntarily.

"Dammit," she mutters to herself and tries again, and he sees how tense the muscles in her thighs are, taut and quivering, and he wants to tell her to try and relax but he knows he shouldn't tell her to do anything at all. Again she tightens up against the intrusion and she pulls off, looking cross and disappointed.

"It's okay," Ben says, voice quavering. The cooler air hits his cock again and makes him shift a little in discomfort, longing for the wet heat of before. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I just," she says vaguely.

She brings her fingers down between her legs, and he sees her relax, watches the tension dissipating from her as she strokes at herself, circles her clit with two fingers before sliding them lower to push one inside herself, and then, slowly, another. Her eyes are closed, her head tilted back, her breath coming shallowly, and Ben watches, a little jealously, wishing he could be the one to get her ready, to gently stretch her around his fingers, to touch with his hands what he felt against his tongue.

This time, when she lowers herself slowly down onto him, he feels his cock manage to push inside. Just a little, just the head, but she's so tight he can barely handle it, and he bites down hard on his lip and tries not to squirm as she keeps going, frowning to herself, trying to relax and let him in. Inch by inch, he's pulled into that incredible tight heat, until finally she lets go and he's fully sheathed inside her. She takes a deep breath and runs her damp hands over his stomach, up to his chest, and offers him a smile.

"Are you okay?" Ben hears himself ask.

"Mmm," is her only response. She has that dazed look about her again, her hair falling in messy waves over her breasts, eyes glazed over, teeth sinking down on her lower lip as she sits there, getting used to the feel of him inside her.

And then she straightens, hitches up her hips just a little bit before sinking back down, quick, full, gasping. The tiny bit of friction almost makes Ben lose his mind. She does it again, lifts off higher this time before taking him back in, and the hot slide is _so_ good, 

"Oh, god, Ben," she murmurs then, suddenly, her expression hazy, happy. "I can't believe we're doing this."

Ben shakes his head at her, echoing her disbelief. A laugh bubbles up out of him, sudden and light, but he's speechless.

"I've wanted this for so long, like," she says, waves her hand vaguely and rolls her hips, and Ben tries to listen but it's like white noise invades his ears, " _so_ long, and I never thought you'd _let_ me..." she drifts off, overcome, riding him slow and lazy as if in a dream.

As she gradually quickens the pace, the movement makes Ben's arms tug at his ropes, strain, his back arching as much as they allow him and making the rough cord rub painfully at his skin. But combined with the blissful feel of her all around him it doesn't seem so bad. 

And god, she looks so beautiful, and he can't stop staring at the way their bodies meet, join, the way he can see his cock when she eases up, the way it parts the folds and disappears, thick, inside of her. He follows the long lines of her body, wishing he could trace them with his hands—the gentle curve of her hips, the dip of her waist, the little arcs of shadow cast by her breasts, her throat white and stretched. She shakes her head, tossing her hair back when she catches him staring.

Her fingers scrabble for purchase on something, nails clawing briefly at the skin of his chest before she finds his tie and latches onto it, and _pulls_. Ben makes a choked-off sound in his throat as he's tugged forwards by his neck, and then he groans as she churns her hips, starts riding him faster, fucking herself on his cock, quick and shallow, slamming herself down on him over and over. He's amazed by how much this really seems like something _she_ is doing to _him_ instead of vice versa. That was the idea, of course, but he'd been sceptical—after all, either way, he still has his cock inside her. But it's not like he's fucking her, it's like she's _using_ it, purely for her own pleasure, and he's not sure that should be as hot as it is.

He's never been so passive during sex before. There's always been more of a balance, and he's been able to speed things up or slow them down, or switch positions, at any time, provided the woman was okay with that. But now those things aren't up to him; all he can do is lie back, at her mercy, and be brought closer and closer to the edge without controlling the way it happens. And god, he kind of _loves_ it.

Just then, Georgie pulls at his tie again, wraps it around her hand like before and sits up straight, pulling him further up, the muscles in his arms straining hard and sore as he's held back by the ropes. She tugs, the ropes hold him back, his head is suspended between them. She reaches behind her, steadies a slippery hand on his thigh and picks up where she left off. She holds onto the tie like _reins_ , taking him deep and riding him, grinding herself against him with each buck of her hips.

His breath is catching in his throat and the tie is rubbing him raw at the back of his neck and she's so tight, so fucking good, and she studies his face and says, "Are you okay?"

He is, he's just not going to last much longer, and he says so, which makes her smile and let go of the tie, smile turning into a big grin when his head slumps back onto the pillows. She shifts, places her hands either side of him on the bed and slides them up, rumpling the sheets beneath and leaning down over him, and the change of angle makes him cry out almost involuntarily, eyes falling closed. 

When he opens them again, her face is hovering right over his, flushed and beautiful with just the hint of a smile playing on her lips. Staring at her, feeling her clenched around him, he feels his orgasm beginning to crash down over him—just as she dips her head and presses her lips to his, fiercely, in a frantic kiss. His hips pump up feebly as he lets out a broken sob into her mouth, and he feels her hand against his cheek, caressing, and then she's milking the rest of his orgasm from him with the easy rocking of her hips, still kissing him, softer and softer and then stopping as he goes weak beneath her.

"Look at me," she whispers, and he realises his eyes are shut and opens them, looks into hers. She rubs her nose against his, and breaks into a smile. "That was pretty awesome," she says.

He just laughs hoarsely, and kisses her. And kisses her, and kisses her...

"I don't want to move," she murmurs, even as he's going soft inside of her, "but I want a hug, and you need your arms for that."

"Yeah," Ben agrees, because monosyllabism is all he's capable of now, every nerve tingling and muscle aching.

She slips off him, ties off the condom and wraps it in tissues before throwing it away, and he lies there and looks at her, the slight wobble of her legs and the glint of wetness between them. She retrieves the scissors from the floor, and sets to work on freeing him, not even bothering to try doing it by hand first.

It's not actually as difficult at Ben anticipated, or maybe he's just so dazed that he's not aware of how much time passes. He feels safe, trusting. All he feels is the slight pressure of cold metal against his wrists as the blade squeezes in between rope and skin, as Georgie cuts carefully through the restraints. As soon as one arm is free, Ben is wrapping it around her, pulling her close to him, hand stroking over the hot skin of her back. She giggles, clashes the scissor blades together in the air to remind him they're not done.

When both arms are free, though, it's Georgie's turn to forget about the other appendages, as she squeezes onto the bed beside him. The ropes may be cutting off the circulation in his feet, and his leg muscles are definitely beginning to seize up, but it's difficult to concentrate on that with Georgie curled up beside him, in his aching arms, soft and sleepy. He kisses her forehead, holding her close, smoothing back her hair. She strokes at one of his sore wrists, and cranes her neck to press a kiss to the red marks left by the rope. Then she makes a contented little sighing sound and snuggles against him, and Ben is surprised to find that the guilt is gone, almost entirely.

Glancing across the room, he sees that the stuffed panda is still judging him silently with its cold plastic eyes, but right now he doesn't think he cares so much anymore.


End file.
